Simple
by radishface
Summary: FINAL CHAPTER UPLOADED. Preseries, Red Dragon timeline: Spike drinks for a purpose. Rated M for language, situations, and now explicit SV SLASH.
1. Simple

**Simple**

_Disclaimers: _Cowboy Bebop belongs to Bandai.

_Warnings: _Implied slash, Spike/Vicious.

_Summary_: It's all for a purpose. Written in bitterness, introspection, and analysis of said purpose.

**Radishface**

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Spike always got soused for a reason. He never drank by himself, he never drank alone, in a room, a lit room or a dark room, it didn't matter. Drinking was a social activity, and drink was something that was meant to be shared. When he had been drinking and he was in a crowd, holy fuck, it could be better than a woman. Check it out, look at Spike, usually more on the dry, reserved side, always willing to make a crack at somebody, look at him now, smashed beyond all good will and grabbing asses, look at him make a fool out of himself.

Half of him enjoyed it, enjoyed the frivolity. The other half kept itself clear, kept itself focused on the purpose of acting like a fool.

The room was dark, the music was loud. Syndicate members had taken off their jackets and it was a flurry of loose ties and untucked white shirts grinding up against tube tops and fishnet stockings. Belts were being undone, Spike saw. Shin was doing a line of coke behind a VIP curtain, Mao had his hand up some bitch's cunt. Spike could care less about the drugs and the pussy, he was out for something else.

A purpose, he had to keep his purpose in mind. Even when his world was spinning crazily and he could barely stand on his two feet and he had to think and search for his words, the most simple of words, he was on it. He was game. He fluttered (if it could be called fluttering) from booth to booth, from woman to woman, from laugh to laugh. Everything was hilarious and the music was too loud. The DJ was fucking his shit up, Spike thought, the lights were out of synch with the music, the lights weren't working half the time. It didn't matter. Nobody was paying attention anyways.

It was dark, and he liked it that way. He made his way to the bar and gestured to the bartender, whose face had taken on an eerie glow (due to the neon lights) and eerie proportions (due to Spike's inebriation). The fucker remembered him, and poured him another two shots. Spike downed one, relishing the burn in his throat. Fire in a shotglass, fire in his esophagus, fire in his gut, fire in his eyes. He didn't want to extinguish it, he wanted to spread it around. Light the whole damn place up in flames. He didn't fucking care.

Life was never as good as it was now.

He carried the other shot past the squirming crowds, past the stench of sweat and the grinding bodies and the smoke and spastic lights, and he brought it to Vicious. Vicious, sitting on a lounge chair by himself, smoking the same fucking cigarette he'd been smoking for the last two hours, in the same position as he'd been in the last two hours. During the last two hours, Spike had sent five shots his way, and had made sure that Vicious had shared four more drinks with various hookers. All the time, that same cigarette was still lit, embers glowing on an edge, ash on Vicious' jacket, the white stuff quite visible in the ultraviolet light.

"Fucker." Spike slurred, and slammed the drink down on the arm of the chair. Some of it spilled onto his hand. "Have another."

Vicious turned his head up, maddeningly slow, and looked at Spike out from the corner of his eye. "I've had enough, thank you."

"Viciousss…" Spike said, and lost his train of thought. Oh, if only the _S_ wasn't so distracting. It made him think—of snakes? Or Vicious? Same damn thing. Same fucking thing.

"You, on the other hand—_" _Vicious faced Spike more openly now, and took a drag from the cigarette. Spike reached down and grabbed it from between his lips , took a drag himself. "You've had too many."

Let Vicious think he was outrageous. Spike could work with that. It had happened before. "You think so?" He perched on the edge of the seat, hand still on the shotglass. "Fuck."

"Give me that." Vicious took the glass from him and threw his head back.

"Strong, isn't it." Spike leered. "Pussy."

Vicious shook his head.

_Easy, Spike. Play it easy. Play it simple. Just take it slow. Give it time._

"Cunt." Spike said, surprised he could still manage his mental thesaurus at this time. "You're a fucking waste of space, you know that? You come to a fucking party and don't expect to get fucking trashed—"

"That's not everybody's purpose."

"You don't say." Spike grinned, made himself look as cocky, as drunk, as possible. Let Vicious see the gleam in his eyes, let Vicious infer for himself. Spike was drunk at this point, and not responsible for his actions. "Excuse me."

Vicious' hand clamped down on his wrist. Spike suppressed the smirk that ached to express itself. Cat snatched the yarn, fish took the bait.

"Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" Spike let his tone fill with derision, a little sarcasm, covered it up with some good nature. "Off to the bar."

"I just saw you there." Vicious' grip tightened on Spike's wrist. "You're going home."

"You can't make me." Spike taunted. It was time to break out the fucking kid, the petulant brat. Let Vicious think he was drunk, let Vicious think he was in charge, that he was in control, that he could take Spike home and feel less guilty in the morning because this act of benevolence had some sort of fucking repentance clause attached to it.

Fucking let him think that way, Spike wasn't going to stop it.

"Come on." Vicious tugged, and Spike let himself sway with it. He let the music overtake him for a minute.

_Can't let go yet. Can't give in yet. Get your game back on, fucker, it's not over._

"Yeah, well." And Spike let himself drop onto Vicious' shoulder, let himself cling on for support. Vicious' arm came around his back, his hand pressed into his hip. He was absurdly warm. Spike wondered where their jackets were. He decided not to mention it. There was a certain path they were going to take, the one that led out of the basement, through the hallway and past the bouncer, and to the taxis. Vicious wouldn't send him off on his own. Vicious would come with him, fucking responsible prick that he was.

Spike lifted his head, enough to see, enough to show a little neck, gleaming from the sweat, enough so that if he turned to talk, his lips would be brushing against Vicious' ear, enough so that when he turned to talk, he could slow at the _S_ in Vicious' name and let it draw out, and implication, a dirty word.

Let Vicious think he was drunk.

They got in the taxi, Vicious spoke to the cab driver, Spike let himself go for a minute, regenerate. He closed his eyes and leaned on Vicious, letting his hand rest uselessly on Vicious' thigh, palm down, fingers moving just slightly, tiny scratching motions. It was an absent movement, an afterthought, something someone drunk would do. It was meaningless, it was purposeless. Vicious' breath caught, and then came faster, and Spike dragged his hand across the vertical length of his thigh, and Vicious' hand caught him.

Spike looked up, blinked coyly, womanishly. Vicious was staring fixedly out the window.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice came roughly, as if it had been pulled out from the quicksand. Spike tensed his hand, and Vicious let go.

Spike didn't answer—he just leaned to the other side, pulled away from Vicious, rested his head in his hands, and gave Vicious a quizzical look. He had no idea what was going on, he didn't know what he was doing any more than Vicious knew what he was doing.

The ride continued on in silence. Spike enjoyed feeling the tension grow, watching Vicious squirm. No, Vicious wasn't impervious, not to bullets, not to alcohol. Spike knew that underneath the bangs, there was a tinge of red flushed high on cheekbones. It was inevitable.

The car came to a stop, and Spike pretended to be asleep. Vicious had gotten out of his side of the car. He could feel the footsteps on the ground, he felt it when Vicious opened the door on his side. Spike put his weight on the door, and almost fell down onto the ground, if Vicious had not caught him.

He gave a start, looked around with wide open eyes, everywhere except for Vicious. He let himself be mauled and pulled out of the car, let his arm be thrown around Vicious' back, let Vicious snake an arm around his waist and help him limp along. They were at Vicious' apartment.

"Keys." Vicious murmured. Spike shrugged uselessly, helplessly. "Damn it."

"Just get them." Spike suggested, and closed his eyes. "Whatever."

Vicious' hand went into his pocket, and Spike put his hand over Vicious' wrist, looked up, straight into the other man's eyes. "Sorry." He whispered, letting a small chuckle escape him.

They held the gaze, and then Vicious looked away.

Vicious got the keys from his right pocket and opened the door. Spike stumbled in, wondering about the placement of shoes, the things left strewn on the floor that day. Vicious caught him before he fell, again. They made their way into the living room, and Spike flopped down onto the couch.

Silence. Spike's face was pressed into the couch cushion, so he couldn't see a damn thing. But he knew Vicious was there, standing at the end of the couch, hands in his pockets, feet tensing inside his shoes. Spike knew every inch of Vicious was quivering with the effort to remain in control, to not stumble, to not fall like Spike had, to not slur his words or appear drunk in any way. Vicious loved to lie to himself.

"We left our jackets there." Vicious said.

"Fuck." Spike murmured into the pillow, without surprise.

"I should go back and get them."

"Hell, Vicious." Spike flipped around on the couch, faced the ceiling instead, cushion hugged tight in his arms. "It's not worth it."

"Those are expensive jackets, Spike."

_Oh, it's Spike now, he's actually saying my name, this is interesting. _

"They've probably finished up, anyways." Spike murmured. "I don't know. You can go back and check."

That was always important—establishing the way out. Vicious could leave now, and have a legitimate excuse for doing so. Spike wasn't going to force it.

Vicious held himself carefully, Spike could tell. His weight was pressed back further on the far foot, the one closest to the exit. Spike gambled that the odds were even. Vicious wasn't going.

And indeed, Vicious sat down on the end of the couch, leaned back and sighed.

"You like playing hard to get." Spike started, and then caught himself.

_Shit, man, shit. Too soon, too soon. You've gotta wait, fucker, you've gotta play it out the right way, and you fucked it up. _

But the damage was done. Vicious had tensed, Spike could feel it radiating off of him.

Silence again, the awkward kind. Spike pretended to be asleep again, threw one hand over his face, breathed heavily, forced himself to relax completely; the couch sagged under his weight. Five minutes passed, Spike counted. Vicious relaxed again. Spike was willing to be a million that Vicious was looking at him right now.

Another five minutes. Vicious got off the couch. Two minutes. Shower water running. Three minutes. Shower off. Five minutes. Spike got off the couch, and headed to the bedroom.

Vicious was asleep, or he seemed to be. The covers were bunched up around his arms, he was shirtless. Moonlight streamed in through the blinds and Spike kneeled down by the bed, hands clasped, waiting.

Vicious opened his eyes, but still didn't look at Spike.

"What do you want?" He asked, voice gruff, husky. Spike let himself smile.

"What do you think?"

Vicious closed his eyes and shook his head. "Spike," he whispered. "Not now."

"Then what time is good for you?" Spike hissed, and stood up. "You only talk when you're like this, when I'm like this. This is supposed to be your fucking sanctuary. I'm gone in the morning, and you never have to remember, and we never have to talk about it. That's my fucking deal."

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

"Spike—"

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

Vicious sighed, squeezed his eyes shut. His breath smelled like alcohol, Spike could smell it from where he was.

"You know I can't."

"I fucking know you can't."

"I shouldn't have to tell you anything."

"We're here now."

"Spike—"

Vicious reached out, eyes still closed, still hiding. His knuckles grazed Spike's, he opened up his hand. Spike took it, and their fingers interlaced.

Vicious' grip was strong, was tight. He squeezed Spike's hand, ran his fingers over the knuckles, around the wrist, tracing the veins. Spike traced the line of Vicious' jaw with his free hand, down his nose, over his eyebrows, over his eyelids. Vicious didn't move, but held onto Spike's hand. Spike didn't expect anything more.

Five minutes. Vicious's hold on his hand loosened, his breathing came deep and easy. He was asleep.

Spike kept kneeling for a minute, just watching Vicious sleep. Then he picked himself up, walked across the room, and shut the door behind him.

- - - - -


	2. Clean

**Clean**

_Disclaimers:_ Cowboy Bebop belongs to Bandai.

_Warnings:_ Spike/Vicious.

_Summary:_ Why does one drink?

**Radishface**

**

* * *

**

Spike always got smashed for a reason.

Whether it was for a good time—actually, there was no "or not," a "whether or not" clause—Spike always got drunk to have a good time. Of course, it was the definition of "a good time" that varied from person to person, that was subjective.

This time, this time—Spike remembered vaguely, through the red miasma that was now his mind, this time—it was because they were celebrating the victory of Ward 3's bust-up of their rival gang's warehouse, a mission that could be summarized by a single elementary-school phrase: tattling. Lin had led the raid of the cokehouse under the name of justice, and he _could, _the fucker, he could sweet-talk himself out of or into anything, out of jail and bail and into cunts, he could talk _through_ cunts, that was how good the fucker was.

Spike was only thinking of Lin because he was patting him on the back right now, rather strongly, Spike registered distantly, look at how Shin's martini was flying all over the place. The olive had tripped onto the floor about three pats ago. Spike decided it was time to stop, although his mouth was still running praises.

Look at Lin, laughing it up, usually so reserved and stuck-up about things, look at him now, what a big kid he was, leading raids on cokehouses in the name of justice, and he _could,_ the fucker, because he could sweet-talk himself out of or into anything, especially _into_ things, like women, that's how good Lin was, Spike was saying, and his hand had resumed its sporadic place on Lin's shoulder, giving him hearty slaps of congratulations. And then Spike was turning away, and he wondered if he had even finished his last sentence.

He saw a glimmer of silver out of the corner of his eye, and grinned to himself; that would be Vicious, of course, always lurking in the corner somewhere, never appearing in the right moments, always hovering over somebody's shoulder when they least expected it. Not a chance this time, Spike thought, I'm watching you, I've got my eyes on you, kid. And he knew that Vicious had seen, had seen Spike's ostentatious display of affection for Lin's achievements, because you know what? Bitch, that fucking brown-noser isn't just yours, fucker, he belongs to the Reds, to the Dragons, he belongs to all of us, and that means I can put my hands on him whenever I want, wherever I want, chaste to shoulder or lewd to thigh, it doesn't matter, because your thoughts don't matter, fucker, _I'm the only one who matters right now._

Spike was so consciously aware of himself, of his own egoistic existence, of his being, of his body, his voice, his laugh, and, paradoxical as it was, his mind. He was aware that it was only functional in spurts, every other purpose obliterated to make room for the one. Every action of his was geared toward the singular purpose of attracting attention, and that purpose—to attract attention—was only to gain the attention of one particular person; the one who would have otherwise, in other circumstances, cared the least. He was never as unpretentious as he was now, never as humble, never as unassuming. He was completely at the mercy of _somebody's_ attentions.

Spike hid a smile to himself, as if that would negate it ever having been there on his face. _Somebody's_ attentions. He congratulated himself on his honesty to himself. Who was he fucking with? Who was he kidding?

That's right… that's right… himself.

Spike felt wanted by the rest of the room. He had put on this charismatic face as to make people want to be in his company. Indeed, wherever he went, the calls followed, _Spike, man, I haven't seen you in how long? Spike, you motherfucker, where the hell have you been these last months? Spike, I haven't seen you in forever! Spike…_ Spike put on a show, the masculine and the feminine, he laughed, chuckled, and grinned broadly; he simpered, cajoled, flirted, crooked one knee up on a chair and crossed his arms on his leg as he leaned in to speak to people, a sort of staged intimacy. The peoples' voices around him were much too loud, the voice of the person whom he was speaking to, much too soft. It was a perfect blend of imperfection; Spike knew that among all the noise, he didn't stand a chance of being heard, and that was why he had to be seen.

Like a woman, he'd dressed up for the occasion tonight. He'd washed his hair, blew it dry, combed it, shaved, applied cologne and deodorant, brushed his teeth, flossed, put on his best suit, and had taken two shots of vodka before he'd left his apartment. When he got to the party, he'd deflowered himself, little by little, debased himself section by section; he'd thrown his jacket to the bellboy, he'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button of his silk shirt, he'd rolled up the sleeves and run his hands through his hair, he'd taken two more shots and his breath smelled like alcohol and he danced with the girls until he was dripping sweat, and an hour into the party, Vicious had arrived, and Spike was completely disheveled. It was intentional.

"Hey," he'd said. "You finally decided to come."

Vicious only nodded.

Spike had gone to the bartender, had asked for three shots of vodka, and on his way back to Vicious, he'd handed one of the shots to some random passerby; it was a move to disguise his intention. He handed the shot to Vicious.

"To the Red Dragons." He'd said, and lifted his glass.

"Cliché." Vicious intoned.

"Bitch," Spike said affectionately, and threw his shot back. "Yeah, that was good," he said, wincing. Three more shots, that's all he would need until he couldn't taste the alcohol anymore. Vicious hadn't touched his.

"Drink up." Spike said, and made a move for the shotglass. Vicious knocked his hand out of the way. "Or else I'm taking that for you."

Vicious was watching him with an intent look on his face. Spike pretended not to notice, Spike turned away, and in his peripheral vision, caught Vicious sipping the shotglass thoughtfully, as if he were at a fucking tea party.

_A couple more rounds. Patience, grasshopper_.

Spike made his rounds, fulfilled whatever promise he made to himself about keeping it on the edge, about not seeming too eager or too desperate or too heady. He made his way to the dance floor, felt somebody up, felt somebody press against him, gooey, wet, his pants would have stains all over them, some guy whispered in his ear, _deal the X, man, hand it over_, and Spike had elbowed him out of the way sharply, turned to his girl of the moment, given her an apologetic smile, had taken her by the waist, maneuvered him so that they were pressed crotch against crotch, her breasts pushing against his torso, heaving in effort. They moved together effortlessly, in complete synchronization. She was a blonde, but the roots of her hair were brown. Five minutes passed, the deejay switched songs. Spike left her.

He was wandering through the crowd when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew, from the width of the palm, from the length of the fingers, from the surety of the grip, that it was Vicious. He didn't bother to turn around, his head was spinning already. His throat pulsed and his stomach rumbled pleasantly. His liver ached, he could feel it screaming, _leave me the fuck alone_, and Spike thought, _I'll leave you the fuck alone if somebody decides to cooperate tonight._

"What."

"You're done."

"I'm not done." Spike protested. "I've just gotten started."

"Go home."

"Nobody to take me." Spike shrugged, smiled guilelessly, put his hands in his pockets. "Lin was supposed to be our designated driver tonight. He was fucking trashed three minutes into the party. Go find him. He's the one with the Asian Flush so red his head looks like it's going to fucking explode."

"Spike."

"I've got somebody I want you to meet," Spike went on deliberately, and took Vicious by the hand, and started dragging him off to the corner to the girl he had been dancing with. "She's lonely, all by herself."

"You had been monopolizing her before."

"She's all yours now."

"I don't want your hand-me-downs, Spike."

Spike just grinned blindingly at Vicious, let go of his hand, and headed off to the bar. Vicious was there at his side, hovering, a little tense. "Give in a little." Spike laughed, and handed Vicious a sissy drink—vodka with a chaser, or a Screwdriver, something like that—and watched Vicious down it in two swallows. Spike laughed again, stumbled a little as he let go of the bar top, and Vicious caught him, hand firm on his hip, one finger caught through Spike's belt loop. Spike didn't say anything, and Vicious left his hand there, eyes staring straight ahead.

_This is like._

_This is like the time when. _

_He's touching me._

Spike thought these things in a state of glee, triumph, and fury. He didn't know what to think. Here was his goal, achieved, and to think, he had slaved miserably, had forced himself into what kind of fucking situation, he was so starved for something as simple as a touch, that he would bring himself to this.

He pushed himself off the bar and grabbed the sleeve of the other man's shirt. "This way."

The girl—Spike's hand-me-down—was a leggy blonde, as was usual for Spike—he always had something for the leggy blondes, but didn't everybody? He knew Vicious had been looking. She was wearing just enough—a bright, flashy metallic gold halter top, her hair sweaty and messy and sexed up, her skirt so short you could see the pearls of her thong brushing the underside of her pussy if you dipped your head a little— and legs that stretched on and on and ended in a pair of heels that might have as well been a pair of stilts. Spike's secret mission, so secret that he hadn't even admitted it to himself—had been to trip her. He had wanted to trip the fucking bitch so badly the minute he saw Vicious looking their direction.

"Hey, gorgeous," Spike drawled, draping an arm around Vicious' shoulder. "This is my friend."

_Hello, Spike's friend,_ she said, trying to be coy or something frustratingly womanish like that. Spike wanted to throw up. He hated the bitch. He hated that Vicious was looking at the bitch.

_You fuckin' piece of meat,_ Spike thought gleefully, _you're asking for it— _

He shoved Vicious against her. The next song started up, a slow, jazzy samba with a heavy beat, the trashiest thing Spike had heard all night.

"I see my buddy Shin over there," Spike cast his gaze somewhere off into the club, and waved absently to Vicious and the girl. "Hey, I'll catch you two later."

"Spike—" He heard Vicious, low and gutteral and pissed. Spike felt something shoot straight through his spine and his dick.

"Have fun, you two," he smirked, and sauntered off.

He didn't find Shin. He'd never even seen Shin. He took great care to go the way of strangers and to not bump into anybody he knew. Spike went upstairs, a drink in hand, a Mai Tai or something tropical like that. The glass was too cold and he couldn't feel his hand. He didn't even know if he was holding it tightly enough for it not to slip out of his grip.

Spike leaned over the balcony and scanned the room for Vicious and the girl. Vicious was a gentleman, of course he'd do the lady the honor of dancing with her. Even if it was just this one time.

The two of them moved awkwardly, and Spike blamed it on Vicious' lack of initiative. Let him warm up. Give him another two minutes. The jolting, stuttering movement of feet and hands would progress into something fluid, liquid. Vicious would run his hands down her body, down the gleaming gold of her shirt, down her thighs. If he'd had enough to drink, he'd sneak a little feel up the crack of her ass. But otherwise, Vicious was a gentleman.

Spike watched them in the crowd. Somebody came up to him and asked him if he were Spike. He pretended to be asleep on the railing, and they'd left him alone. He watched them dancing together, the girl growing adventurous and putting a little more wiggle into her ass, Vicious' hair in his face so Spike couldn't see his face, not that he would have wanted to anyways, see his lips parted and working for air, sweat dripping down his face and into his shirt, hips pushing slowly into the girl's crotch, the two of them pressed together like that,

Vicious lifted his head up and looked directly at Spike.

Spike couldn't pretend that he hadn't been watching them. Hell, Vicious had probably felt the fucking holes being drilled into the back of his head. Spike raised his Mai Tai in a toast, threw his head back, and downed it like a shot. He tossed the glass into a dark corner and heard it shatter.

The back of his eyeballs had started throbbing. His dick was heavy and he was shaking. He needed to sit down or get out of here. He opted for the latter.

He went down the stairs and pushed through the crowd to get to the front. He hadn't brought a jacket so he skipped past the coatcheck. He thought he heard someone call his name, maybe it was Shin or Mao or somebody else. He didn't care.

He knew Vicious was following him.

What would he do, Spike thought, what would he do when he got outside, felt the cold air hit him, knock breath into his lungs instead of this despicable humidity he was breathing, what would he do… would he come to his senses?

_Let me lie just a little longer in this haze—_

He'd maintain a safe distance, past the parking meters and the gaslamps and down the street and into the alleyway and he'd wait around the corner and pull Vicious in by the lapel, pull his just close enough so that Vicious could smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough that he would only have to whisper so that Vicious could hear him say

_What the fuck do you think you're doing_

And slip, trip, fumble, release his grip on his collar and pull him in again and let their noses touch, their lips close enough for Spike to taste something so potentially dangerous…

It was so quiet outside. Quiet enough that he could only hear his own footsteps and his own heartbeat and the lulling hum of the street lamps and the neon shop lights. Where were the fucking crickets when you needed them, Spike thought to himself, where were the fucking crickets and the grass meadow and the park. He wanted to sit down, he wasn't feeling well. He couldn't drive home, look at how impaired he was. He wasn't afraid of a ticket or a DUI but he was afraid of the thrashing the Elders would give him for committing such a petty violation when he was supposed to be out there committing felonies.

"Spike," it came.

_Wait a beat. Pretend like you haven't heard him_.

He waited. Then he turned around, putting an extra swagger in his step, tilting his head an extra ten angles for effect. "You."

Spike could see him perfectly. Vicious was standing right in the light of the street lamp, every shadow heightened dramatically, his coat wrapped around him protectively. He melted into the shadow that he cast, he looked like a ghost crawling up from the ground. One eye peeked out from under his lowered head of hair, faintly disapproving and incongruously patient. He held something bulky in his hand. Spike narrowed his eyes and brought it into focus; it was his jacket.

"Let's go." Vicious said, and turned around, as if expecting Spike to follow him.

_Fucker,_ Spike thought, a smile finding its way onto his face. "You just got there, what're you leaving for?"

Vicious stopped in his steps, appeared to consider the question. "You knew I didn't want to be there in the first place."

It was a good enough reason. And Spike _had_ known that.

He followed him, ten paces behind the other man, followed him to the car, had opened the door for himself and sat down and closed his eyes without putting the seatbelt on.

The car didn't start. Spike heard an intake of breath, the kind that betrayed insecurity—and then he felt a hand reach across his chest, grappling with the seatbelt, hands awkward, as if they didn't know what to do—he felt the hands slip back across his chest, dragging the strap with it, and then the satisfying _click_ of the buckle as it latched into place. The hands lingered there for a moment, and then they were gone.

_Bingo_.

The key turned in the ignition, the engine rumbled to life, and Spike blacked out.

* * *

He woke up, half-heartedly, to find that his shoes and socks had been taken off, his belt removed, his necktie stripped, and the first two buttons of his shirt opened. He moved his tongue inside his mouth and tasted the remnants of toothpaste in the upper corner of his left molar and in the back of his tongue. His throat didn't feel as dry as it should have. 

Spike cracked open one eye. Vicious was hovering over him, an indiscriminate shadow, nervous, shaking just slightly. His eyes caught the light streaming from the window, filled with uncertainty, and desperation.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

Spike didn't know what to say to that. He turned around in his bed, murmured, _goodnight._

Spike faced the wall, his eyes wide open. The bed sank and Vicious settled in beside him, covers rustling too loudly, bed creaking too generously, moving too much, saying too little—_is this what I wanted_, Spike thought, _did I want him to ask me that?_

The noise settled, and Spike forced himself to relax, to let the tension drain from his muscles, to melt into the bed. Vicious remained rigid, barely breathing, beside him. He felt the body heat emanate from the other man, the wide expanse of back and muscle through the flimsy cotton that Vicious wore as an excuse for a night shirt, the smell of Vicious' hair, damp with sweat and smelling of the remnants of cologne, heady and sweet and masculine,

_I want to fuck you,_ Spike thought, squeezing his eyes shut, biting down on his finger, teeth grinding on the knuckle, _the same way you're fucking me right now, making me crazy like this inside my head, playing games with me like this, I want to make you hurt as badly as you've made me hurt, I want to make your breath catch and feel your arms strain and beat you down and kill you—I don't want you to be able to breathe except when I want you to, I want you to breathe for me, I want you to make you gasp, I want to fuck you, I want you to fuck me, to do everything you're doing to me right now except more, I want it harder and faster and thicker and deeper, I want it, I want it, fuck, fuck, fuck,_

Spike left in the morning while Vicious was still asleep. He put his shoes on, his belt on, fixed his necktie, and threw on his jacket. He grabbed a beer from Vicious' refrigerator and slammed the door behind him. When he was outside he leaned against the door and lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with inky blackness and sin and watched the sun rise up over the cityscape.

He'd satisfied his desire for a smoke.

* * *

End part 2 of 4 

To be continued.


	3. Sanctuary

**Sanctuary**

_Disclaimers: _Cowboy Bebop belongs to Bandai.

_Warnings: _Spike/Vicious. Sex, drugs, and murder. Explicit slash and language.

_Summary: _It's a special day.

**Radishface**

…

She was a pale girl with platinum hair. Her name was Jenny Rose and she was in Spike's apartment. Four martinis and X and shrooms to boot, it had been a fun night. It had been at a club, where else? Guys, their guys, standing at the door, armed to the teeth and looking cool in shades even though it was three in the morning when Spike wandered in. Kenny Yeung had been heading the boys around that time. Around his paunch was his latest acquisition; the belt of a Blue Leopard gangleader. Spike punched at it good-naturedly as he entered the club, gave Yeung a high-five-handshake with all the works.

"Good going last night, Kenny," he said. Kenny was built like a sumo wrestler, had a head like one too, hair black and shiny shiny, bald in all the right places. Kenny knew him, they were like brothers. He'd killed that guy with Kenny last night. Kenny sat on him while Spike put a bullet in the guy's head. He let Kenny have the belt, a diplomatic move of sorts.

"What happened to your face, man," Kenny asked, grunted through thick breaths.

"Got hit," Spike said, hand coming up reflexively to cover his cheek and the bruise there.

The music rattled Spike's ears as he entered the club. He hadn't been looking for Jenny Rose, but Jenny Rose had found him.

But before that:

Six-o-clock. Spike had been posed on the couch, one arm curled around the armrest, the other one draped over the back. He fuckin' owned the couch, man. Look at him pose, look at him go. He was a total gangster. His foot, shoes on and socks with holes in them (but nobody could see), propped up on the coffee table. The other leg crossed over his knee. Look at him go, he was a total gangster. Nine cans of beer on the coffee table (might as well call it a beer table, Spike had never touched the damn stuff in his whole life except for the one time he'd gone out on that date with the artsy chick to the artsy café downtown. He dumped her right afterwards.), two cans of beer rolling around on the floor, aluminum clicking like a wiseass on the tile. He was smoking a cigarette and chugging a beer at the same time, hot and cold streaming through different windpipes. He wanted to drink smoke and smoke beer. That'd probably kill him, if Vicious didn't first.

Six-fifteen. His cell phone buzzed, it was Lin. Spike fumbled with the "answer" button and pressed it a little too hard, feeling the little piece of plastic crackle beneath his finger. "Yeah?" he said.

Six-thirty. The sun was still up, it was summer and it wouldn't set until eight. Cue Vicious. Cue broken doorknob, cue broken door, cue busted hinges.

No, just kidding. Vicious came in, calm-like. Spike had left the door open. Twenty cans of beer on the beer table and five cans of beer on the floor.

"Yo," he said. Maybe he said it wrong, like, "lo," or "mo," or something. How could he possibly slur "yo?" Oh yeah, damn it, it was all a part of the plan.

"You were supposed to meet me at five-thirty, Spike."

Spike heard water. He closed his eyes. "Yeah? So? Sorry I ditched you. I had to take care of my beer table."

"You fucked it up, Spike."

"I did no such thing," Spike stood up. "Lin called me. It went okay. It went okay, buddy, and," he stumbled over to Vicious, standing as straight as a tree by the door, and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "You did good, buddy."

"I had to handle the whole den by myself."

"You're a warrior, Vicious, a true warrior." Spike meandered over to the refrigerator. "Hey, want a beer?"

"Spike."

"You've got blood on your coat, man." Spike shook his head. He snapped the beer cap open on the edge of the counter. It opened with a hiss and a fizz, and some beer spilled onto his shoes. "Can't believe you came all the way over here without changing first. Beggars can't be choosers, but I ain't one."

Vicious closed the door behind him, walked into the apartment with clean, brisk steps. He kept his shoes on. They were black and shiny, except for the splotches of blood here and there, on the toes, the shoelaces.

"You can't do this again, Spike," Vicious said quietly. "I'll cover for you this time. I won't tell the Elders—"

"Fuck you, you self-righteous bastard." Spike's head hurt. "You did it yourself. Just take the credit. Get promoted, shit." He flopped down onto the couch, spilled beer on himself.

Vicious was silent for a beat. "Don't do it again, Spike."

"Fuck you," Spike said. He would have been more eloquent. He should have been eloquent, it would have been part of the plan. God, Vicious, be pissed off. Both of them. God and Vicious willing. Come on, hit me, Spike thought. I wish I could push the right buttons. But he wasn't on point right now, he wasn't primed to be on point—the mood wasn't right, the setting wasn't set straight. He needed company, and this one was not cutting it.

"What the hell have you been doing today?" Vicious said, his voice tight. Spike grinned.

"It's my fuckin' day off," Spike laughed. "I would say that it's my birthday, but you might not believe me. I can do anything I want when it's my birthday."

Maybe Vicious left after Spike fell asleep. Maybe Spike fell asleep and that's why Vicious left. Or maybe, Vicious left and then Spike fell asleep. He remembered the latter almost shaking in anger, hands drawn into fists at his sides.

He woke up around one-thirty in the morning. Spike could feel a bruise on his cheekbone, blooming freshly, not visible yet, pain of impact still there. He brushed his teeth and took a long shower, taking much longer than necessary to wash his hair and his pubes. He contemplated jacking off in the shower but figured he'd save his juice for later. He got out of the shower and put on a dress shirt, something silky and button-up, slipped on a pair of slacks. Spike threw his jacket over his shoulder and made sure he had a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Lighter in the other, check.

He wandered around the city for an hour, taking in the sights, smoking cigarettes at street corners to piss people off, he went and visited Omar, the guy who manned Annie's shop during the night shift. He told Omar it was his birthday, and Omar got out his best brand of scotch and they had a toast. He couldn't understand what the fuck Omar was talking about through that thick accent of his, but he didn't really care. Yeah, praise Allah and Vishnu. Fun stuff. Giving Omar a high-five-handshake with all the works, Spike felt ridiculously happy all of a sudden. Hey, world, he thought, it's my birthday.

Or at least, I think it is.

He arrived at Club Bellagio without a hitch. "It's my birthday," he told Kenny, and Kenny let him in without a hitch. "Cool, man," Kenny said, his voice booming and aristocratic.

The club literally bounced with the music. Some fast-paced, ear-grating electronica was playing, and the deejay was sweating buckets behind the turntable. Spike went to the bar and ordered two rounds of Sex on the Beach. Some pretty brunette came by, sipped with him, entertained him with some story about cleavage and lizards, and left again. Spike couldn't remember the story too well. He was drunk and off-guard.

It was his birthday. Nothing was going to happen to him. People were invincible on their birthdays, right?

People were like ghosts around him. Spike danced a dance or two and then wiggled his way off the dance floor. He ordered a cosmopolitan for the girl he had danced with and did two shots of vodka himself. His head felt light and carefree. She giggled when he stuck his hand up her skirt. He toyed around with her pubes but didn't venture any further, didn't feel like it. The bitch wasn't worth it.

"What's your name?" Spike said, right in her ear.

"Miranda," she giggled.

And then a pale girl with platinum hair walked up to Miranda and tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, Miranda, Jim's been looking for you."

"Shit," Miranda said, and wrenched herself out of Spike's grasp. Spike shook his head, signaled the barkeep. Another round, please. It's my birthday.

"It's your birthday?" The pale girl said. She wore lots of eyeliner, and her hair fell in her face. She had bags under her eyes like she hadn't slept for days. Spike wanted to fuck her, and he knew exactly why.

"Yeah," he said. Charm, on. "Did you get me a present?"

The girl looked alarmed, but quickly settled into the back-and-forth. "Yeah," she said, crossing her legs awkwardly, even as she tried to make her voice sultry. "But you'll have to wait and see."

"You look hot tonight," Spike said. He had really meant to say, you look dead.

Her name was Jenny Rose, and she was twenty years old. She was a student at the city university nearby and was majoring in health sciences. Bogus, thought Spike. What a nice name for a girl. He never called her Jenny once, that night. Not once. He only called her by her first name and her last name. Jenny Rose. She seemed relatively new to all of this. She laughed and giggled whenever Spike wanted her to. He felt great. He felt big, expansive, loving, like he could suck in the whole world. He felt benevolent. It was his birthday. 

He took Jenny Rose back home and fucked her. She was crazy. She wanted more, and he gave it to her. God, he didn't know what he was doing. He fucked her raw. He rubbed cocaine on her tits and up her cunt and stuck mushrooms in her ass and then made her eat them. She was screaming and screaming until her voice was hoarse. Oh, she had never had it so good before. Come on, more, more. Spike gave it to her. She was wiry, strong beneath him, and he pushed her down into the bed. Her hair fell limply over her eyes. How she fought. Spike imagined…

When he woke up, Jenny Rose was dead. I've really done it this time, Spike thought. I've really fucked one of them dead. Pride flooded him, bittersweet and sickeningly out of place.

He turned her over, looked at the eyes rolled up into the back of her head. Ghostly. Flecks of foam beaded her lips. She was positively blue and her fingers were purple. Spike was in deep shit. His fireplace wasn't working and it was in the dead of the summer, why the hell should he have his fireplace on? He couldn't burn her. He could chop her up and flush her down the toilet. His toilet would run dry from all the flushing. It would be like that time he had the stomach flu and was shitting every five minutes. God, his mouth was dry. He needed a drink.

His hand was shaking as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. He let it drop on the ground, ignored it. God, bourbon didn't help, did it? It just made your mouth drier. Tap water sounded nice. He wanted bourbon-flavored water. So he poured out the bourbon and filled the jeweled bottle with tap, took swigs.

He thought about what he would do with the body. He thought about it for a while, until the sun went down again. He thought it about it so hard that he started to cry. Tears down his cheeks like bourbon, fuck it. Tears like bourbon and ethanol. He slumped down in the kitchen and slammed the bottle on the floor. When he grimaced, the skin on his cheeks tightened, and he felt the bruise from earlier begin to flower, blossom on his cheekbone.

Later, Vicious appeared in his vision. He hadn't heard the other man come in. Spike didn't move to get up.

"You forgot it," Spike said, as if it were that simple, that clean. "But you can make it up to me."

Vicious stood there, waiting, a column of black, eyes hidden under a mess of white hair.

"Get rid of her."

…

When Spike woke up for the third time, it was light outside. His head felt clearer but he wasn't going to give it away. He was not wearing his shirt; he'd been put to bed. His sheets were pulled up to his neck and folded over. He felt like a pig in a blanket. Spike wiggled his toes; no shoes, no socks. No corpse in bed next to him. Not really.

Vicious was next to him, jacket off, shirt slightly unbuttoned. His mouth was slightly open, slightly pink, breathing softly.

Spike reached over and unzipped Vicious's pants. He fished out the other man's cock and spit on his hand, started jerking him off. He could still smell Jenny Rose's perfume on the sheets. He pulled harder, faster. Blood and sensation rushed to his own cock, but he ignored it.

Vicious's eyes snapped open. "Spike," he said. His voice was empty, without any feeling at all. Vicious was scared shitless.

Spike crawled over him, leered, not letting go of his cock. "You know what I want."

"Son of a bitch," Vicious said, digging his fingers into the mattress.

Spike bent his head over Vicious, breathing hotly. Vicious lay still there, body held rigid and unmoving as Spike's breath ghosted over him. "Come on," Spike said. "Join in the fun, why don't you." He pushed out the words between soft, shallow breaths.

"Oh—" Vicious covered his face with both hands and Spike took him into his mouth and his head shorted out.

Spike knew he could be good. His hands were good. He made his mouth fierce and felt Vicious push up imperceptibly, into his throat, fucking that juicy sweetness, and Spike had never felt more like a cocksucker in his life. Spike started to touch himself, his dick riding so hard against his belly it hurt.

"Don't touch yourself," Vicious said coolly.

Spike choked out a gasp, a jolt like electricity coursing through his body. It dropped him flat against the bed, his face pushed into Vicious's junk, and he inhaled deeply. Vicious smelled like coffee and rain, his dick red and heavy in Spike's face. Spike pulled his hips closer, and Vicious pushed into his mouth with a harsh grunt.

He wrapped his arms around Vicious and urged him to fuck his mouth. Vicious cried out again and grabbed Spike's head, shoving in hard, demanding. Spike rubbed his thumb up under the head of his dick; Vicious bucked.

"Come on," he said, voice gravelly. "You fucking—"

Vicious came after a few thrusts, head of his cock bobbing, come hitting the back of Spike's throat. Spike let him go and swallowed, drawing a hand across his mouth, wiping the spit and come off. He took some deep breaths, learned to inhale again.

Vicious had his arm thrown across his eyes. He was breathing hard, pale chest heaving up and down, a sheen of sweat trailing down to his crotch.

"Oh god," Spike said, and slid his hand back around the other man's head, white hair slipping like silk through his fingers. "Oh god," he whispered again, closing his eyes. He felt honest for the first time in a long, long while.

He pressed his mouth against Vicious's lips, which opened against his with a sigh. The kiss was soft, fine, and Spike ached terribly for a moment, hovering on the edge of pleasure, before he gave in and collapsed, fell, the kiss becoming hot, desperate and wet. Vicious made noises against his mouth, and Spike forced the other man's lips open with his tongue, and it was so strange, but not a bad strange. Their noses bumped and it was Spike's first time with a girl, wet and sloppy and not suave at all, but this kiss wasn't for suavity and Spike was glad for this.

He wanted to say more, and knew he couldn't. He pulled back, eyes still closed, and let their foreheads knock lazily for a moment, his eyelashes kissing Vicious's cheek, his lips grazing the side of his jaw.

Spike fell to the side of the bed, drawing the sheets over his head, giving Vicious ample room to leave when he was going to leave. It was still light outside, there was still time in the day to cover this affair with others.

He let his eyes open hours later, sun setting and red light flooding his vision. It might have been red anyways, Spike felt the blood pulsing deeply in his brain, filling every vein to its capacity, clotting, overflowing. His bed sloped downwards to his side, he could feel the warmth of a body still there. There was a hand in his hair, thumb and forefinger stroking lightly at a few strands, erratic in rhythm. It moved down to his face, fingers gliding over the bruise on his cheekbone, light and gentle. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air, recently smoked—thick, heavy, beautiful company.

…

_end part 3 of 4_

_to be continued_

…


	4. Passion

**Passion**

_Disclaimers: _Cowboy Bebop belongs to Bandai.

_Warnings: _Spike/Vicious. Sex, drugs, and murder. Very explicit slash and language.

_Summary: _Secret spaceships only take you so far.

**Radishface**

…

_Crap_, Spike thought, cracking open an eye. _Hangover._

He tried to lift up his head but it was too heavy. Felt like it weighed like the entire Red Dragons space envoy. Felt like it weighed like your mom.

"Ungh." Spike's mouth parted with effort, his lips cracked open with a dry smack. Head up, finally. The room spun for a little while, and Spike let himself get thrown in the washing machine, and thought about where he was and what time it was. Vicious had gotten out of the shower a while ago and had probably left. The sheets were tangled up at the end of the bed. Spike remembered, they'd had a little more of that stuff; the jaw grazing, the stubble rasping, Vicious had stuck his finger in Spike's ass and Spike had pretended not to like it, as usual, but every time he recoiled he wanted it more. One of skankier ex-girlfriends had told him that all the guys she'd dated had wanted it up the ass. Guys were all sluts, she said. Spike made sure she got it up the ass at least once a week.

He ducked his head, felt the blood come up to his face, making his eyes water, his ears burn. He wiggled his ass into the sheets. All good times.

Yeah, good times. Spike leapt out of bed with a little too much fervor, feeling the blood flush dangerously out of his head, leaving him lightheaded and ten times more hungover. Ignoring the nausea as best he could, he headed to the bathroom and stepped in the shower.

Five months after they first fucked, when Spike had jammed Vicious's cock down his throat and had given him a throatfuck like a repressed Catholic schoolgirl auditioning for a porno, they were still fucking. Spike supposed there was something victorious about that. It was always sort of a surprise when Vicious gave him that eye, the same kind of eye he gave the motherfuckers on the street before he broke their noses or stomped their heads into the curb. Post-coital cuddling was also, surprisingly, in the picture, with Vicious's arm looped around Spike's neck and honestly, the position was sort of uncomfortable and Spike would rather be sleeping on a pillow than Vicious's muscley forearm but he supposed that this was the price he paid. Never mind that the economic transaction came full circle; Vicious's post-coital look was the same kind of look he got after completing a mission, glowering and dark and secretly smug (the secret was in the corner of his mouth, which was always imperceptibly upturned). It came full circle because that look made Spike want to fuck again.

Never mind that they weren't technically "fucking." Apparently five months wasn't enough to complete the prerequisites in sexology to move onto penetrative sex. Spike might have been ready but as previously demonstrated, avoiding the finger in the ass was like running off the graduation podium.

All these thoughts in the shower, Spike? A perverse combination of authority figures had suddenly amassed in his head—his mom, his dad, the Elders, and Vicious. You naughty boy.

His headache pulsing like his hard-on, Spike grabbed at his dick and pulled on it half-heartedly, not feeling much pleasure from the physical sensation, but losing himself in the fantasy of Vicious fucking his ass.

One exhausting orgasm later, Spike stepped out of the shower, knees weak, vision bleary, and head pounding more than ever. He wrapped a towel around his waist and started to towel his hair dry with another, heading to the living room. The sun was still out, pretty high up. There was still plenty of time left in the day. Spike picked up his phone and dialed some number.

"Spike." Vicious's voice on the other end, amusement barely disguised.

"Yo," Spike said, sort of at a loss for words. There was silence, sounds of something scratching and a faint rasp of breathing. It was nice.

"What are you doing?" Spike asked. The towel slipped off his waist. He didn't bother picking it up. There was something delightfully perverse about being naked and talking to Vicious and the other man not having a clue about it.

"Inventory."

"You write that shit down?"

"For the records."

"Forget the records," Spike said. "I've got a load of weed over here and I want you to smoke it with me."

Another pause, and then a faint click of the tongue. Faintly teasing: "this is the week for inventory, Spike. You can't just barge into Annie's and demand anything you want whenever you want."

Spike let the words "anything you want whenever you want" hang in the air for a minute, toyed with the implications of that, before gathering his breath. "Yes I fucking can," Spike protested. "Where do you think I got the weed from?"

Vicious chuckled through the phone, and Spike smiled at the sound. Halfway across town, they were smiling at each other. God, it was some stupid shit.

"I'll see you, then." Vicious hung up the phone.

No indication of anything, or whenever—but Spike knew that the other man's word was as good as the present.

…

Spike was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, feet bare. Vicious was in his usual outfit, slacks and white shirt and black tie, sportscoat slung sullenly over one shoulder. Spike knew that Vicious spent hours on practicing that pose, but had never caught him in the act.

"You take inventory in your suit? Don't you get hot?" Spike reached out, offered to take the coat, Like welcoming some slut into his apartment, hiding his intentions behind chivalry and coat-taking courtesy. But Vicious understood it was for show. Vicious knew he was the slut.

Vicious threw the coat on the couch, and Spike took back his hand, crossed his arms instead. Vicious walked by him without a glance, but he let his hand trail over Spike's hip as he passed. Their relationship was damn abusive sometimes.

"Get it out," Vicious said, coolly commanding, a hint of a smile underneath the frigid exterior. Spike narrowed his eyes, licked his lips, got ready to say something.

"Okay."

He walked over to the drawer he kept the stash in, unwrapped the tinfoil he kept it in. There it was, pungent and fragrant and fresh, all nicely broken up and ready to go. The smell of marijuana filled the room. "Pipe or joint?"

"Pipe," Vicious said. "I'm in a good mood today."

So Spike rounded out the filter, stuck it in the pipe, dropped the leaves in, started to salivate. Vicious produced a zippo out of his pants pocket, and Spike handed over the pipe. Guests first. Especially when you're trying to get the guest to fuck you, even if now isn't the best time.

Thirty minutes and two bowls later, Vicious and Spike were thoroughly stoned.

"Look at that light," Spike pointed out the window, at the setting sun. Goddamn, the sun was setting already. Couldn't be possible. It was like a million years had gone by, shouldn't it be a black hole by now? A ladybug with blonde hair had just settled on his head. She had told him to keep fucking as long as possible, and then had turned into water and drifted away in a water bubble, like they were in space. Oh, but they actually were in space, right? They were on Mars! Who would have thought.

"Mm," Vicious nodded sagely, eyes closed. Spike resisted the urge to giggle.

"It's like." Spike sighed. "It's like, look, it's setting, and there are the blinds."

"Yeah."

It's like it's setting, and the light comes in through the blinds. The blinds are obstacles, and the light is you. I see you sometimes, and sometimes I don't. But I'll always see you, as a whole.

"Come on, work with me here," Spike said. "I want to know what's up."

Vicious threw his head back. Spike saw a smile on his face, a genuine, zoned-out smile. He laughed out loud. Vicious paid him no regard, just cracked open one eye and smiled a little more.

"What, you can't read my mind? Isn't this the good stuff?"

"Stop thinking about tits for a minute." Spike thought about tits every once in a while. Vicious could think about all the tits and pussy he wanted to, but Spike knew. Spike was a part of it—the secret.

"I'm not thinking about tits," Vicious grumbled. "I'm thinking about the sun."

"Never thought you the hippie kind," Spike snorted. "Where's the rainbow expressway?"

"I was thinking about how to blow it up."

Spike thought about this for a minute, but the physics were too complicated. "But you'll die."

"Actually," Vicious exhaled slowly, looking very serious, "I've got this space ship."

Spike was looking at him now, this man in his apartment, in his life. Vicious was completely relaxed, a part of Spike's couch. Spike wish he could keep him there, a bit of the solar system in his room, a bit of the sun in his room, everything rotating around it and then some. Vicious and the couch melded together until the asteroids came to tear the two apart. It'd be cool.

Vicious continued, "it goes really, really fast."

"How fast." It wasn't a question.

"Pretty fast. Seats two."

"Oh." Spike thought about that, too. Nothing too complicated about the physics there. "I can't make it, actually."

"Why not?" Vicious looked up at him, mouth quirked.

"Damage control. Got to clean up what you've fucked up."

"The seat was for the tits."

Spike doubled up with laughter, holding his sides. God, it was stupid. They were so stupid. He fell over onto Vicious, his head in the other man's lap. He lay there, still laughing, but just to himself now. He buried his nose in Vicious's stomach, breathed in a little. Smelled a little sweaty, and like some sort of cologne. Smelled good.

"Hey," Vicious shook him, a little. Spike looked up. Vicious's eyes were friendly. A little bit wet.

"This," Vicious said, spreading out his arms, gesturing at the room, the sun, the blinds, Spike's sweatpants and his own tie, the ashes in the pipe, rainbow expressways and really fast space ships, the sun blowing up and blasting off out of orbit. "Too bad."

Spike's heart flipped, and he closed his eyes to hide it. Not what he expected. But still right, all the same. Too bad.

…

They were almost caught, once. That was when they decided they weren't going to do it again at work, or on the job. But it was hard. No pun intended.

Spike associated Vicious's post-kill look with post-coital cuddling. It was a little fucked up. But every time Vicious put a bullet in someone's head, Spike wanted to cuddle.

They knocked over an entire closet's worth of inventory when they were cuddling, once. Four thirty in the basement of Annie's shop, presumably there to stock up on magazines but pumping each other up instead, standing up against the cement walls and their pants dropped around their ankles, fisting each other and biting at each others' mouths, knowing that it only took them three minutes to get the rounds and bring them back upstairs, but today, it might take them ten or fifteen.

They slumped down to the floor afterwards, and Spike had stretched out his legs and inadvertently knocked over a stack of paint cans. Annie didn't ask any questions when they came upstairs drenched in moss green and coral pink, just handed them turpentine and sponges, and made them work for the rest of the evening. For about a week afterwards Spike associated cuddling with the smell of paint and turpentine, which made him want to vomit.

One other time they were supervising a rather dull cocaine transaction at the Four Seasons Hotel when Vicious decided to take an unannounced bathroom break. Bach's Brandenburg Concerto coming through the speakers, Spike felt technical and complicated and fiercely driven as he paced down the hallway five minutes later. He joined the other man in the handicapped stall and was slammed back against the wall as Vicious got down on his knees, unzipping his fly without undoing the button, shoving Spike's cock into his mouth, licking his balls and up his cock and shoving it down his throat and gagging. Spike knotted his hands in Vicious's hair, pushing his head back and forth, quiet grunts, wet sucking sounds, the rasping of cloth, and Bach's Brandenburg Concerto all playing together in a perverse fugue.

They were washing up, the front of Spike's pants suspiciously wet, his face flushed and rosy. Vicious's hair was tousled, his mouth red and wet. Footsteps echoed in the corridor outsides, and then Lin came in. Spike immediately put his finger in the faucet and sprayed water all over himself and Vicious.

"Sorry," he said, and reached for the paper towels. Lin raised an eyebrow and walked over to the urinals. Spike was doused with a fine mist of water down his front, and he had gotten most of Vicious's side.

Vicious's said deliberately as he left, "be careful, Spike."

Lin finished his business as Spike finished blotting the water off his pants, particularly his crotch area, and flashed Lin a practiced, sheepish grin, shrugging helplessly.

Lin only echoed Vicious's sentiment, but in a decidedly different tone of voice. "Be careful, Spike."

…

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Spike was in a house of pagan worship. The sky was the roof and God came through in the sun. Vicious was right next to him. They had smoked up in the house and then gone to the corner convenience store to get a few beers and were now hanging out in the basketball courts across the complex. Spike had brought his basketball but it was flat and he couldn't find the air pump and couldn't be bothered, really. It was a clear day out and Vicious's hair caught the sun, soaked the color up. The other man was sweating, that was really the only thing he was doing while sitting on the bench. Sweating and spacing out. The sweat felt like ladybugs, Spike thought, watching a bead of sweat hang on his eyelash, wiggling precariously, as if it were deciding whether it wanted to take the jump, make the fall.

Spike hadn't gotten trashed in a while, hadn't gone out in a while. Life was full of inventorying, dull cocaine deals, and Vicious, always a phone call away, and more recently, within arm's reach most of the time. It was too bad.

He was sailing now, bugs crawling all over his face, mostly in the downward trajectory, ticking down his neck and gluing themselves to his shirt. He was sailing in that spaceship that went really, really fast, on his way to the sun. A million years passed by and he flew over Earth, chunks of it floating like asteroids, land pockmarked with asteroid scars, Venus, terraformed pockets of land and dandelion spokes floating in the air—he soared past Mercury and imagined that dinosaurs still lived there, and ended up in the sun. God, it was so hot outside, who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to come out on a Sunday afternoon and sit in the middle of the sun in the middle of the basketball court?

History went by. He had a bomb with him, and history didn't matter. Everything was moving in robot time, slow motion time, as he dropped it into the sun, watching the black thing disappear as it was engulfed by fire and waves. The sun shook and spun and for a moment, all of its movement belonged to Spike—all of its energy and all of its chaos and fusion and heat and turmoil, all of it belonged to Spike because he was the one who destroyed it. Never underestimate how good it feels to own the sun, Spike thought. It will overwhelm you.

I have to get away before it explodes, he thought. I have to drive as far as possible! So he hopped back in his spaceship—

It was hot outside. Bugs were crawling in his pants now. His crotch was sweating. His thighs were sticky, and Vicious was silent beside him.

He hopped back in his spaceship, and started to drive. But it was too late, because the sun had already become a black hole, sucking everything into it, including Spike's really, really fast space ship. He put his pedal to the floor and pushed the nitro booster button but nothing worked, really. Time was getting stretched out, slowed down. He felt long, jumbled, reckless, and couldn't move his legs. He pushed every button in his spaceship and there were infinite rooms with infinite buttons in each one. They were all the color of the sun.

It was all sort of pointless. Spike decided just to go with it.

"Hey." An elbow in his arm, scattering the bugs away, moving him back into two planes of reality. "Hey, Spike."

"What," Spike wheezed, still sweating, sweat coming out of his eyes, it was so hot outside.

"You okay?" Vicious's voice came from a million years away, somewhere past Mercury, by the sun. "Hey, talk to me."

"Yeah," Spike said, imagining Vicious's hands around his waist, pulling him out of the wrecked spaceship. He sighed.

"What happened?" Vicious asked, his voice a little clearer now. Spike was coming back. He lifted up his head. Somehow it had gotten thrown back against the bench. Guess he hadn't been paying much attention.

"Bad trip," Spike said, opening his eyes. "Didn't last."

...

end

...

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been with me from beginning to end. You guys make writing worthwhile, and I have to admit, if I didn't have so much encouragement, I wouldn't have been able to finish this. The story actually took quite a different turn than originally planned, but I'm quite happy with this result, even if I know some people might be disappointed by its ambiguous ending.

I was thinking that I wouldn't be able to finish this series—I had started writing it while I was in a very tumultuous stage in my life, and harnessed a lot of that energy into beginning this story. Since then my life has taken a rather different tone and for many months, I tried to begin the last part of this, but wasn't able to capture the original tone of the piece. In the end I just decided to go for it and go with the different vision. I apologize to readers if they were thrown off by the turn this last part has taken. My "newer" tone of writing is also apparent in **EWHPTIV to Hacker Joe** and **Miss Universe on Judgment Day, **which are pieces I think are much ambiguous, darker, and… well, weirder. I've always wanted to utilize the science fiction of Cowboy Bebop much more, and believe that scifi elements can be incorporated into the series' fic while still retaining the integrity of the series.

At any rate, I wanted to pull S & V out of the cigarettes and boozy world that they had been in the last few chapters, and give them a new environment to play in. 

Feedback is always appreciated, and I really look forward to anything you have to say about how to improve my writing. Thanks to everyone again who has been reading this from the beginning, you have my eternal appreciation. 


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